pity this busy monster,manunkind by e.e. cummings

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not.    Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim( death and life safely beyond )

plays with the bigness of his littleness

–electrons deify one razorblade

into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish

returns on itself.

A world of made

is not a world of born—pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence.    We doctors know

a hopeless case if—listen:there’s a hell

of a good universe next door;let’s go


3pm today: Occupy Wall Street march!


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